Prometheus Paradox
by star wars for Jesus
Summary: Guided by his own dark agenda, a being eagerly awaits the arrival of the Prometheus on his world.


Caveat:

I'm not entirely certain of what you may know of good and evil, but let me assure the readers of this: the voice who tells this story isn't to be trusted. Not in the slightest. Rather, regard him as a liar who happens to be blunt about the truth when it suits him.

But please, PLEASE, do not discount everything he says. Yes, he is a liar. And yes, he can twist the truth—just like any good liar, really. It's just…well, evil does have some concept of good, knows it like the blind man has some allusion in his mind toward light. And he will reveal some things, things which you might be sourly offended by, which is O.K. Be offended. Just remember that truth often offends, and that it will be truth that will set you free.

That is, if you choose to accept it.

Ugly, that's what they are. Toddling about on those two knobby legs, heads sliced in half by oily, bulbous noses, they can only be described as disgusting. Unsavory. Especially when one of the apes reaches the supposed "golden years", its skin wrinkling like a heap of forgotten laundry, its hair as silver and brittle as a withered spoon.

And the Enemy dotes on them. Lavishes affection on their ghastly heads as if they were the most beautiful objects in the universe, as if _they_ were somehow worthy of it. It's as if He's completely ignorant of their fouls mouths and depraved minds—but we all know this is not the case. Everything—whether things in heaven or things on earth or under it—is caught in His ever-roving gaze, including every despicable act of those creatures He insists on pursuing. Those galling _beasts_ He calls "humans".

Why He ever insisted on creating them in the first place, I'm not certain. Just look at history. The little animals are constantly smiting one another, drinking in evil as if it were the chalice of the that One they call Savior, spitting in their own Maker's face as if He were mud. One moment they pretend He doesn't exist, slapping their grubby paws over their eyes when the Enemy's handiwork blatantly screams of His reality; the next they fall at His feet in mewling adoration, only to turn around and rape and cheat and murder their neighbors. And they have the gall, the absolute audacity to blame _us_ for it! If I hadn't been privy to the Savior's brutish incarnation, I might've wondered why the Enemy hadn't simply dumped them when He'd the chance into Sheol.

So imagine the thrills I experienced when I heard tell that the little mongrels were once more shielding their eyes from their Maker's presence. Only this time, they're going about it elaborately. Very, _very_ elaborately, I should say; those dolts they call scientists have constructed some sort of inter-planetary vessel, a collection of hulking machinery and computers they call "Prometheus". Funny, that they should give that name. After all, it stems from one our kind's greatest deceptions: Greek mythology. From a very specific tale, too, that one about some kindly god's attempt to deify mankind. The one that so eerily echoes our own fate, when the Enemy decided to scourge us, to cast us away for simply realizing our own beauty.

Our purity, really. Our splendor. Our worshipfulness that should've been, should be, and should yet be.

But now isn't the time for bitterness. Not for a little while, anyway. With the help of some our less stationary legions, we've located Prometheus, her great bulk drifting lazily through space toward our world. Blue flames roar out her engines, casting her hull in a soft azure glow that's oddly beautiful—even for something crafted by those human worms. If we're lucky, the sheer, alluring nature of their vessel will nurse their bloated egos, blinding them to the real dangers that await them on Planet Nephillim.

It's amusing how they believe answers to their origins lie here. After all, it will be childishly simple for them to waltz in here, collect the mangled body of a Nephillim, and race back to earth as if they're created something better than microwavable popcorn. The "evidence" they seek was easy enough to fudge, diabolically so; they'll find their puny genome hidden within the ebony blood of the corpses, and they'll be utterly convinced they've discovered the inception of their cowardly race. As if they've somehow replaced the Enemy, dethroned Him as we long to do.

As a blast of silicon-rich air screams past my face, I fight to contain what the humans call a "smile". If I were capable of feeling the same joy they gorge themselves on every day, I would find some sort of immense pleasure in this, watching the dolts float toward our world. They've no clue what a Nephilim is, probably, and if they do, they've discounted it as an archaic myth. None of them will have any clue what the planted corpses are, their minds ignorant to our legions who once ambled about their earth, mating with their hideous, adulterous females.

The same females who gave birth to the Nephilim, the unholy giants of Noah's day.

Beside me, I sense a being shift, and turn my head to regard my own portion of the legion. We are not all the same, we pure ones—but I can tell from the venomous glares from the others that they wish they were me. They envy me: me, me, me. As well they should. Who wouldn't want to possess my flawless, nearly transparent complexion, my flaxen hair or my pure, silvery eyes?

One of them—a lesser pure one named Appetite—rushes to my side. He's nowhere near as tall as me, and he's considerably less beautiful. His skull is hairless, shot with the delicate, bluish hews of veins, loaning him an almost sickly appearance, but his eyes are dark—dark in the purest sense of the word. They're black, lightless, lifeless, reflecting only rudimentary emotions such as anger, hate, or fear, and right now they're brimming with an overwhelming tide of the latter.

Appetite meets my gaze, his pale mouth taught in a paler line. "The Enemy has taken note of our position, your bestiality, and…well, sir, it appears as if He means to squash our efforts. Paranoia's troops have reported brigades of True Ones making their way toward our star system, and if I'm not mistaken, they might have the King amongst their numbers."

Although my face—my beautiful, alluring, worshipful face—betrays nothing, I'm inwardly roiling with fear. The King…He is something altogether terrifying. Not only is He the physical representation of the Enemy, the exact representation of a Being who sees all and cannot be seen, but He's the beginning to all things. And the end. Out of His own mouth our beauty was breathed into life, yes; but He also has that same power to merely un-speak our loveliness out of existence, to reduce us to mere memories or worse. He can, and one day will, dissolve the universe as if it were sugar and water, setting it ablaze before He brings the Hope to life.

Hope. The Enemy's great gift to humanity, among other things. I even recall a member of the Body attempting to explain this mystery, this great, despicable deluge they've been drowning in since the crucifixion, and he went as far to say that it's one of the baser elements of reality. That when all else has faded, when the heavens are torn and the earth is no more than billowing smoke, only faith, hope, and love will yet remain.

And we'll be burning, flames licking at our oh-so-pure white skin.

After a moment of bitter reverie, I regard Appetite. "How close is the King's army, would you say? He Himself could be here in an instance—He's probably listening to everything we're saying, everything we think—but the True Ones are bound by the same limitations as we are. Even Michael can't be in more than one place at a time, after all."

The lesser being's hairless brow furrows. "We're not sure about their precise location, your bestiality. The ex-Seraphim report only on the existence of the approaching True Ones, not on logistics."

"And why aren't they?" I demand, my flawless lips drawing back in a snarl.

"Even they do not command Omnipotence, your vices."

Vices? What a pathetically childish title, Appetite. Even a squalling human grub—those fat, spiteful blobs the beasts call "children"—could rattle that tedious list off on his or her bloated fingers. "But the Enemy does, I seem to recall."

"Well, yes…yes he does—"

"Prometheus is preparing to land, your brutality," a voice cuts in. It's deep and cultured like my own, and as I turn I recognize another of my kind—an individual we call Doubt—at my other shoulder. "Should we begin the evacuation?"

Returning my gaze to the sweeping landscape before us, I briefly weigh our options. It's night on our world at the moment, the sky overhead churning with ebony rage, its clouds pregnant with acid rain. Cold emanates from the ground, reflecting any heat it held back into space, and it's getting practically swept away by the incessant winds. No sane human—no living entity—would dare set foot on this world. Period.

"We should," I reply, keeping Appetite's passable face in view. "And we should do so quickly."

Pulling a crystalline dagger from my belt, I motion for the lesser beauty to come forward. His translucent skin nearly glows in the dim light, casting an eerie shine on his features that doesn't quite hide his bemused expression. I suppose, after all, that even beasts can't hide, will have to one day lift the shroud and be seen for what they really are—not what they fancy themselves to be.

"Yes, your lowness?" he prompts, tilted head giving off an odd, milky sheen.

I lift the dagger slightly, admiring my reflection on its polished surface. "Have you ever heard of a martyr, Appetite?"

He frowns. "Um…yes. It's a type human, right? One who dies for something he or she believes in?"

"Yes, yes. Like Ghandi or Steven or that goodness-awful Martin Luther King Jr." Aphantom of a smile spreads my gorgeous lips. "But in this case, even those beings would be considered less foolish than the martyrs of tonight."

"And they are…?"

For a moment, I opt not to take it further. I let him puzzle over that, mull it over in what amounts to his mind—but then I see it. Light, spreading through the horizon, so blindingly bright that even my immortal eyes can't see anything for several seconds. Light, penetrating everything to be seen, and everything unseen. Light, plunging toward the ground at an alarming rate, filling the air with the thrum of a thousand wings.

"True Ones!" screeches Doubt. "Retreat to earth!"

But retreat won't be a possibility. Well…not for some of them, at least. Doubt and our kind are already pushing into the sky, our luminous wings beating powerful against the air, hacking our way past dozens of True Ones—and we're leaving the others far behind. Shrieks of anger mingled with bitterness begin to rise from the ground as they collide with our enemies, their voices cursing us as we hear the thunders of the King shake the world.

The universe, even, as He casts beauties into hell.

Coda:

Romans 1:18-20: The wrath of God is being revealed from heaven against all the godlessness and wickedness of men who suppress the truth by their wickedness, since what may be known about Him is plain to them. For since the creation of the world God's invisible qualities—His eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood by what has been made, so that men are without excuse.


End file.
